Swordsman's Regression: Reawakened as a Necromancer-Chapter 43: Journey to Brackenbridge

The gray walls of Wolsend eventually faded into the mist behind him, taking the militaristic province of Northmarch with them.

Percival rode Argus through the divide, riding south. The Ironcrest Mountains disappeared, and so did the cold terrain of the borderlands.

The cold of the North would be missed, but in the distance, the rolling, fertile hills of Oakhaven Shire awaited.

The journey, however, wasn’t just travel.

Every time Percival spotted the distinct, shimmering distortion of a Gate—usually between Gamma to Beta—in a passing village or town, he stopped.

He paid the Gatewatch and entered the dungeon.

Throughout his journey, he had cleared three Gate Worlds. Two C-Ranked and a B-Ranked.

He cleared a Den of Cursed Goblins in a nameless hamlet. He shattered a Stone World of Golems in a quarry town. And he purged a Nest of Razor-Bats near a river crossing.

With the Anchor Ring, he exerted his Dual Class’s Skills with no drawback whatsoever.

With his upgraded arsenal, he slaughtered through these Gates at a record time that left other Awakeners and the Gatewatch officials staring in shock.

By the time he reached the gentle forests of Oakhaven Shire, he was at Lvl. 25.

The province of Oakhaven Shire was nothing in similarity to Northmarch.

The air here smelled of sweet sap and blooming wildflowers rather than forge smoke. It was a peaceful province, unbothered by the assault of Gate Worlds, though it had its fair share.

Tall, elegant Elves walked the roads alongside humans.

Oakhaven Shire was the Human Kingdom province with the highest population of elves.

Despite the undeniable fact that the kingdoms of these races were secretly at war, the commonfolk found a peaceful coexistence in this tranquil province.

Percival rode past them without slowing down, ignoring the glances they gave his horse, and him.

He arrived in Gleamstone, the capital city of Oakhaven Shire.

The capital lived up to its name.

The buildings were white stone, polished to a mirror shine that reflected the sun.

Unlike Northmarch’s capital, Wolsend, Gleamstone was more of art and diplomacy than warfare and Awakeners.

There were many temples, simple learning houses and trade markets. 𝕗𝗿𝕖𝐞𝐰𝗲𝕓𝐧𝕠𝕧𝗲𝐥.𝚌𝐨𝚖

It was in one of these trade markets that Percival purchased a Portal Map.

Portal Maps were exorbitantly expensive items, which was why he had hesitated to acquire one back in Wolsend.

Especially after purchasing the Scythe.

Now, with enough mana coins after clearing those Gate Worlds along the journey, he could afford the eighteen gold required for the item.

He unfurled the map once he was outside the city limits.

Portal Maps weren’t omnipotent; they couldn’t whisk one anywhere. They could only tear open pathways to specific gate-nodes marked on the parchment.

Percival found the node he was looking for, marked for Ostuary, the capital city of Brackenbridge.

Selecting that node, he activated the map.

The space before him imploded outward, rending reality to create a swirling, violet void.

Percival stepped through, leaving the serene province behind.

His boots touched ground in Ostuary and the portal closed behind him.

Almost immediately, the smell of spices, dried fish, and human sweat slapped him in the face.

He sprinkled 3 silver to the waiting glove of the portal gate guard and stepped off the teleportation circle in the city square.

There was so much noise.

Despite being a province with a grim history, the people of Brackenbridge loved to enjoy life.

Ostuary, the capital city, was a true manifestation of this.

It was a chaotic hive of commerce. Any kind. Every kind.

Traders shouted prices for silk and grain. Children ran through the streets chasing hoops. The buildings were clustered tight, brightly painted timber-frame houses that leaned over the cobblestones.

In another time, Percival would have enjoyed the vibrancy of a place like this. Now, all he wanted to do was leave.

The drums, the chants, the yells; none of it interested him. So he made his way through the crowd, a dark blot in a colorful painting.

"Hey there, handsome," a woman in a low-cut tavern maid’s dress called out, touching his shoulder as he passed a lively inn. "You look like you’ve traveled far. Want to rest your boots?"

"Yeah, come drink with us, oh fierce Awakener," another said, raising her leg and a tankard.

Percival didn’t even turn his head. He stepped past them, eyes fixed on the southern gate.

Arriving, he headed out of the city gate, ignoring the guard’s curious look at the heavy scythe and sword hanging behind him.

The Sword Case too.

Percival walked out into the open plains. Once he was clear of the trade caravans, he summoned Argus.

The skeletal horse burst into a gallop, tearing up the turf as they headed toward the jagged silhouette in the distance.

The Wounded Peaks.

Hours passed. The modern cityscape died away and Percival was welcomed by rocky, scarred earth.

The Wounded Peaks was a collection of shattered mountains, constructs of rock that looked as if a god had taken an axe to it.

This was the site of the Battle of Brackenbridge.

Decades ago, during the Fourth Mortal War, this place had been a slaughterhouse.

It was here that the Kingdom’s vanguard had held the line against a demonspawn incursion that threatened to swallow the south.

And it was here that Mercius Seagrave had fallen.

Percival’s grip on the reins tightened.

Mercius Seagrave. A Lvl 131 Knight.

In the history books, Mercius was a Titan. A man who had mastered the defensive arts of the Knight class but fought with the ferocity of a Berserker.

During the battle, when the lines broke, when every other Warrior and Awakener had fallen, Mercius had stood alone in the valley.

He alone slaughtered the wave of Demonspawns, earning the titles: Blade of Brackenbridge. The Brackenbutcher.

However, when the dust settled and the war seemed won, he was ambushed by three Demonknights.

He killed one before the others felled him.

By the time reinforcements arrived, Mercius had succumbed to his wounds.

He became a pillar of the Knight Class, a true leader of men.

He was buried alongside his fallen brothers in the Ruins of Brackenbridge.

A Soul Soldier like Mercius was exactly what Percival needed.

His Skeletons were getting stronger, yes. They had technique now, thanks to his training. But Percival was only one man.

He couldn’t micromanage every skirmish. He couldn’t be everywhere at once.

He needed a General.

He needed someone who could take command of the undead legion.

Someone who could teach them advanced warfare, organize formations on the fly, and stand as an immovable object against the monstrous beasts that were coming.

Mercius was the perfect candidate.

He was a true Knight. His explosive combat power, unmatched tactical knowledge, unbreakable will, and sacrificial loyalty were the precise qualities Percival sought.

Hence why the Blade of Brackenbridge was his first choice for a Soul Soldier.

But as Percival knew, there was a catch.

Raising a Soul Soldier wasn’t like raising a Skeleton.

You do not merely pour mana into the corpse and command it to rise. You had to negotiate. You had to answer the call of their lingering spirit.

Unfinished business, Percival mused, the shadow of the mountains falling over him.

A man like Mercius, who died a hero... what regrets could bind him to this world? What task would a Level 131 Knight demand of a Level 21 Necromancer before bending the knee?

Percival pulled on the reins. Argus skidded to a halt.

They stood at the foot of the Wounded Peaks.

The wind howled through the crags, sounding like the screams of long-dead soldiers. Ahead, amidst the rubble of a shattered keep, lay the entrance to the sacred tomb.

The Ruins of Brackenbridge.

"Let’s go wake a legend, Argus," he whispered to his steed.